


Direct Violations

by irishlullaby13



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: DSF warning, F/M, Fluff warning, Ichabbie Valentines, Ichabbie Weekend, ichabbie being dorks, ichabbie being silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 19:11:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9672278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irishlullaby13/pseuds/irishlullaby13
Summary: It's all fun and games until someone breaks the Tickle Treaty of 2015.





	

_God Dammit_ , Abbie thought to herself trying to keep her eyes from the very obvious distraction. Part of her supposed she could liken it to the way men would check out a woman's ass or something. Or maybe a man checking out a woman that had decided to go without a bra. No, that wasn't a good comparison because it wasn't like she had intentionally sought out the object of distraction.

Quite the opposite. She had just been minding her own business, sipping her morning coffee at the table. In her customary t-shirt and underwear for pj's with fuzzy slippers. He had come around bar with his own cup of coffee, taking tentative steps so not to spill the cup he had accidentally filled to the brim. He paused long enough to slurp at the contents of his cup and lean against the counter. That's when she had looked toward him and everything just...

Urgh! _Why, why, why_ , she mentally asked. Why had she looked, knowing that her direct field of vision would take her straight to the imprint at the front of his trousers? She should have known. It wasn't exactly the first time she had noticed _it_ and it probably wouldn't be the last time. Her height left her at a distinct disadvantage--or advantage, depending on how she looked at it--that sometimes she couldn't help but notice it.

More than once she had wondered if he wore any kind of underwear. Once upon a time she had asked Irving to breech the subject with Ichabod... and Frank had just given her a stony glare, turned, and walked away shaking his head, muttering something involving the word “messy”. Nothing had changed on the Ichabod front so she supposed he had never talked to him about it.

Maybe she could get Joe to talk to him. Although she could see how that could be an awkward conversation no matter how it came out. _Hey Ichabod could you start wearing underwear, your room mate says she is spending way too much time thinking about how free your penis looks in your trousers_. To be honest, she couldn't see how such a conversation would ever end well, regardless of who breeched the subject.

Besides, if she did get someone else to bring it up, she would have to explain why she was looking in the first place. 

Just so she wouldn't have to look any longer--hell, she was so familiar with that imprint she figured she knew the exact length and girth of it well enough to judge not only how good it would feel inside of her, but how may hours she would be left walking a little funny--she gulped down the last of her coffee and hurried to take her cup to the sink.

Yep, it was thoughts like that which made her debate the idea of getting someone to talk to him. 

Once in the relative safety of the other side of the counter, she reasoned that it was his business and his alone on what he wore under his trousers. If it served as a distraction to her, she was the one that needed to stop looking and learn to control herself. The day she or anyone else talked about his underwear choices would the day she found a nice deep hole in which to live out the rest of her days.

She turned slightly when she heard the sound of cabinets opening and closing behind her. Ichabod was perusing the lower cabinets. It wasn't often he had to actively seek something out that was stored away, eidetic memory and all that. "What are you looking for?" she asked, setting her clean cup in the drain. She turned and leaned against the counter. 

He stood and tucked his hair behind his ears. Ichabod drew in a deep breath. "I have need of getting something out of the cabinet you are standing before," he admitted tentatively. "I thought perhaps I could put a roast in a slow cook."

"Oh!" Abbie stepped aside and, with a flourish of his coat, he knelt down to retrieve the slow cooker. See, now that was something she could concentrate on. It was something within the realm of decency. It didn't involve looking on places she didn't need to be looking at on his body. Instead she could concentrate on how damn elegant he could be at times.

Some of it was the by-product of his era. But she thought that maybe most of it was a product of just Ichabod being Ichabod--that aristocratic air mixed with an inborn desire for preserving perfection. Hell, even the way he would delicately turn the page of a book was a work of art. Of course she could just be being biased since she viewed him as a work of art.

He set the crock pot on top of the counter and stood. Abbie forced her eyes upward when they immediately wanted to go the opposite way. Dammit she needed to stop. She also needed to make the montage in her head, set to 'Be my lover' go away because it definitely didn't help matters any.

Her brain screeched to a halt when Ichabod started walking toward her, a small smirk on his lips. She immediately felt the urge to panic, worrying he had noticed her inappropriate leering, but squished it down with iron clad determination when she met his eyes. Eyes were good. Eyes were a very appropriate place to look.

Ichabod reached behind her to open the cabinet were they kept all the spices. Between his height and the length of his arms, he had enough space to navigate without disturbing her. But he was still close enough she could take in the smell of dusty old books and worn wool that seemed to cling to him, intermingled with his natural, masculine scent that started that damn montage in her head again.

"I'm just all in your way this morning aren't I?" Abbie asked, using a light chuckle to cover her breathlessness. She was pretty sure she was deserving of a lengthy scolding about how she should have moved when she saw him approaching. Followed by being picked up and hoisted over his shoulder, then taken somewhere he could put her over his knee and spank her because she was being a very bad girl-- Abbie's eyes widened and she wondered just where the hell _that_ had come from.

Ichabod looked down at her. "You're not in the way at all Lieutenant," he assured gently. "There is plenty of room for me to reach the spices without disrupting you further."

Ah yes, the wonderfully common invasion of space. "You're too kind, Crane. Too kind..." she teased. She really needed to get to work. She also needed to stop thinking about other spaces he could invade. God dammit, why couldn't she get that damn song out of her head?!

He leaned in closer as he reached for something near the back of the cabinet. Abbie held her breath as he pressed flush against her. Oh, so he was playing _that_ game, was he? The good old, oh-you're-not-in-the-way-but-you-really-are game. They took turns initiating the game. 

It had started with her sitting on his feet when he had been stretched out on the sofa one night. Then later that evening they had one-upped each other continuously by her taking his seat when he went to the bathroom, so he sat in her lap. So she started tickling him. Then he had nearly knocked himself out with the coffee table when he flopped out of her lap.

After that it nearly became a daily tradition for them to do something similar. Apparently today he was initiating it.

"As I said," he continued. "You are in no manner in my way."

If she didn't have to get to work, she would gladly play the game. But she did have to work. So she just slipped her hands inside his coat and tickled his sides. An undignified snort escaped him and he squirmed away from her, pepper grinder in hand. Abbie held up a finger when he got a mischievous glimmer in his eyes.

"Crane," she tried to say seriously, but could not conceal the laughter in her voice. "I have to go to work." He arched an eyebrow and set the pepper grinder on the counter—oh great, he was taking her constraint in time as a challenge. Abbie scooted away from the confines of the counter still holding up a finger to keep him at bay. "Don't... no. _No_. Crane. _Crane_. Don't you even..."

Abbie squealed, turned, and ran. They made a few laps around the island before she dashed out of the kitchen. It wasn't the first time their little game had turned to a chase through the house. In fact, last time she had chased him around the block. It was all playful. Friendly. Just a couple of friends chasing each other. Heck, one of the times they had literally ran through the munition tunnels, to the Archives, around the Archives, and back through the tunnels to get back home.

That last one had been a feat in and of itself in Abbie's book, considering she was the one being chased that time. Normally, Crane's longer gait made the chases where she was pursued rather short. Her only saving grace had been there was plenty of things in the tunnels to knock into his path.

When Crane slipped, stumbled, and fell onto the sofa, Abbie stuck her tongue out at him and dashed to her room. She had to get ready for work anyway so it was a logical place to try and take sanctuary. Crane had almost caught up by time she swung her door behind her, but he threw up a hand to prevent it from closing.

Abbie screamed with laughter as his arms wrapped around her from behind and he lifted her off her feet. "No, no, no, no," she laughed, swatting at his arms to try and get him to release her. She knew what was coming next. He was about to inform her that...

"That tickling was an act in direct violation of Tickle Treaty of 2015, Article 1, paragraph 4," Crane commented.

"No it wasn't, it was perfectly within the constraints of Amendment 2 of Article 3, Paragraph 6," Abbie argued. She tried to wriggle and twist free but his hold was firm. 

"Amendment 2 is only applicable in the event one becomes cornered in the midsts of the chase, Lieutenant," Crane murmured near her ear. "The chase had not even begun. I dare say it was your breech of the treaty which initiated the chase. And you are aware of the punishment for breeching the Treaty, Miss Mills considering you are the one which wrote it..."

“Yeah and you very rudely tried to filibuster it,” Abbie reminded. “Y' Jerky McJerkface. No woman should be forced to listen to Beyonce lyrics read in the style of Shakespeare to assure her belly goes untickled. Because, one, that's an act of treason in this household... ”

He set her feet back on the floor but still held her tightly. Abbie seized the opportunity to attempt to break out of his hold. Ordinarily her Quantico and police training would have been perfect for escaping. But it was considerably harder to put it into action when she was laughing. She ended up just bucking against him and doing lame, half-hearted hops to try and escape.

She squealed when Crane freed up one hand to start tickling her. The hold he retained with one arm was enough to prevent her from twisting and flopping away from him, even though she _did_ try that too. It had been all fun and games to that point.

But then her laughter and playful screams became moans and sighs. Crane's fingers ceased tickling and started to draw lazy patterns on the strip of flesh that had become exposed during their playtime. And then there was the one thing that his lack of underwear made very obvious against her back.

Considering the train of her thoughts for most of the morning, it was no surprise that she felt a pang of desire when she noticed _it_. Abbie pushed back against Crane gently, making him let out a slow, ragged sigh. His hands enveloped her waist, holding her still. Crane shifted his hips away from her. "Lieutenant, I..."

Abbie reached behind her and slowly ran her hand down the front of his trousers. “I don't think any of the Amendments covered this,” she commented as his lips brushed the curve of her neck and shoulder. His hands glided down over her hips as he bent her over the bed.

“Are you proposing a 6th Amendment?” he murmured just before placing kisses along the back of her neck.

Abbie shook her head. “Something more like the Bellybutton Accord found in Article 7.”

“Speaking of which... yours is exposed and had been for more than 30 seconds.” One of his hands slid up to the gap where her shirt had ridden up. Abbie fought to suppress a laugh, which came out as a squeak, as his fingers found her navel. She bucked her hips against him and grasped his hand with both of hers.

“I have to be at work in an hour,” Abbie sighed as the hand at her hip moved to between her legs. Of course, calling in sick was always an option, she mused. Oh, or maybe she could call and say she had a flat tire. Or there was the option of calling in dead... not that they would believe that one but it would be worth a try.

“That presents us with two options,” Ichabod murmured. “We could make a quick, rough, first drafting of the new Accord or... wait until you return from work this evening and take our time making certain our wording is absolutely perfect.”

She really liked the idea of... “Both sounds good,” Abbie replied. “Besides, if we wait... we might not see a point in drafting the new accord.”

“Oh, I believe there is more than enough evidence that a new accord is needed and _should_ be drafted.” Ichabod rubbed the apple of her cheek with his thumb. “And I am a firm believer that... such accords should be _thoroughly_ considered when written and not hastily pushed through.”

Slowly a smile spread across Abbie's lips. “I have considered your opinion and have decided that I am amenable to your suggestion and we shall reconvene the...” her brain scrambled for how to word it “...Amorous Convention at 6pm tonight.”

“I look forward to it.”


End file.
